But These Things Also
by marlinowl
Summary: "But these things also are Spring's...and Spring's here, Winter's not gone." - Edward Thomas. For the LJ Drabble Meme.
1. waken to peace in the paradise of sleep

**Title:** waken to peace in the paradise of sleep**  
>Characters:<strong> Tigress, Shifu**  
>Summary:<strong> _"So," he whispers sadly, and the familiarity of it all doesn't scare him like it used to. "We are two."_**  
>Written for:<strong> Starlight River of Dreams**  
>Prompts: <strong>Family, Father/Daughter**  
>Word count:<strong> 752

* * *

><p><em>as it falls from its dream to the deep<br>to harrow heart's prison so heart may waken  
>to peace in the paradise of sleep.<em>

- _Triste, Triste,_ Gwen Harwood

.

Evening rolls around much quicker than they have come to expect. By the time they've finished in the Training Hall the sun is already simmering mildly, a smouldering conglobate of embers lying half buried beneath the tangent of the horizon. Most of the visible sky has been thoroughly boiled into an alizarin red; streaks of liquid light vein the boundless expanse, lancing whole clouds drifting in their path. Even though it isn't night yet, servants scuttle to light the lanterns that litter the walls of the Jade Palace, wary of the occasional misguided visitor, even though all who walk these hallways know every corner by heart.

She's nearly as tall as him, but Shifu (barely) cradles Tigress in his arms. The exhausted feline breathes evenly and deeply; breaths only taken by those in the late stages of sleep. He walks slowly, making sure to support the back of her head at all times because a cramped neck is not something anyone would want to wake up to in the morning. Particularly if the previous night was spent training: twenty sets of push-ups for starters, a hundred per set.

When he reaches her room he slides the door open with his foot and stumbles in, almost losing his balance. Shifu carefully lowers the sleeping child onto the tatami mat and starts to unfold a blanket.

Tigress stirs, and then one bleary, sleep-ridden eye flutters open. "Father?" she mumbles.

It makes him pause; he forgets the square cotton cut-out clutched in his hands. "Tigress, we've already talked about –"

When he's turned around, Tigress has fallen back to sleep. The rest of his rebuke caught in his throat, Shifu swallows hard and returns to straightening out the tangled length of cloth. _It all started like this; have you forgotten already? Don't go down that path again. There will be no turning back…_

_She's my daughter._

_Yes, she is. He was your son, too. You want her to remain your daughter, do you not?_

_I…_

A sudden sensation of warmth around his ankles interrupts his thoughts. As he turns around again, he's surprised to find that she has deserted the mat; instead, Tigress is sleeping comfortably at his feet, a chromatic ball of orange and black and white. Shifu reaches down to prod her awake, but his hand stops inches away from her heaving back.

_This is the only way to keep your family together._

When had he begun to think so clinically? As if mending a family is as simple as following a recipe: stick to a prescribed methodology and do what's stipulated and then cross your fingers and hope for the best. Keep his family together? _This isn't a family,_ Shifu thinks bitterly – even after _him_, he knows this much. Squatting, he can see her smile, and wonders what she's dreaming of.

"So," he whispers sadly, and the familiarity of it all doesn't scare him like it used to. "We are two."

Shifu sits down gingerly, tenderly, and covers Tigress with the blanket. Smoothening over the fur on her forehead, he leans back, allows himself the tiniest of grins, and closes his eyes.

.

Shifu dreams that night: cinereous fur tickling his fingers; enumerating dark spots out of the corner of his eye in a smoky sea of grey (one hundred and twenty-nine, at last count); a lonely ink scrawling sepulchred deep within a scroll of children's stories once owned, initials 'T.L.' carefully engraved into the wood of the document. A normal scroll, free of the aureate burden he has come to detest.

By morning, tiny splinters of sunlight seep through pinholes that stipple the opaque fabric stretched tightly between window frames. Inside the room the coldness of night has yet to dissipate, still-endothermic wood sucking up heat beneath their feet. When he awakens to her furry form curled up beside him, warm and quiet, Shifu doesn't get up until she does, and all the while he smiles a wholesome smile, cries with eyelids held shut.

Outside, a rising sun pours life back into a valley that has temporarily renounced daylight – an unconditional barter to reunite the heavens and the earth, caressing the phosphorescent stars as lovingly as a father would his daughter.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I just can't resist making references to previous fics I've written. Especially the one that really started it all. Also, because I'm a poetry freak, the title of this drabble collection shares the same name as a poem by Edward Thomas. And yes, I have a certain weakness for purple prose. So sue me.

This is the first instalment for the LJ Drabble Meme. If you wish to submit your own request, the full details are up on my profile.


	2. Wishing Only Wounds The Heart

**Title:** Wishing Only Wounds The Heart**  
>Characters:<strong> Viper, Po**  
>Summary:<strong> _For all her cold-bloodedness, Viper finds that she's not too proud to admit she's never felt so warm before._**  
>Written for:<strong> Anything Goes**  
>Prompts: <strong>Love, Wanting**  
>Word count:<strong> 763

* * *

><p><em>Don't wish. Don't start.<br>Wishing only wounds the heart._

_- I'm Not That Girl,_ Elphaba Thropp

.

Last night, she had a dream where someone loved her. She relives the feeling, over and over again – to have someone pluck at the strings of her soul, to take flight on a wing of crystalline song, to have the core of her heart pierced by a brilliant nerve of sound, rhymes and rhythms both absolute and eternal.

.

The first time she feels it is when he falls out of the sky, a monochromatic body plunging right before them, kicking dust clouds into the air. She really should be more affronted than she is, but when he looks up Viper can't help but forgive him immediately for his impudence, what with his boyish face filled with wonder and the naïve disorientation; a hint of empathy, a smile ghosting his cheeks, eyebrows raised in innocent curiosity.

When Master Shifu tells her to show him no mercy, Viper follows his instructions halfheartedly. She taps him gently in places where she knows it won't hurt as much, holding back the torsional power coiled tightly in her muscles. When Po hits the dirt again and his enthusiasm doesn't falter, she makes a silent promise to go much easier on him during the next spar.

.

Viper doesn't tell anyone, but she thinks that Mantis may know – she volunteered to help him with Po's acupuncture session with surprising alacrity and he had caught her gazing at him half a second too long, acupuncture needles long forgotten. Mantis doesn't mention anything and she doesn't expect him to, because she learnt a year back that her rattle has a thing for keeping insects quiet; she glares at him and the threat rides a hideous, traitorous undercurrent, causing Mantis to stick a needle a hair too far to the right.

.

He smiles at her with the effervescence she's come to know and love, gives _that _laugh she never knew she could care about so deeply – she reacts the only way she knows how; look away shyly, feeling the zither music soaring in her veins. For all her cold-bloodedness, Viper finds that she's not too proud to admit she's never felt so warm before.

.

If necessary, she would carve her own heart out and offer it to him, her pound of flesh to purchase his love. If that wasn't good enough, she'd wear it on her sleeve (if she had sleeves) as a badge of rejection, an epaulet bearing the rank which no one wants; a poor second best.

.

Po's visibly frustrated – he ploughs his way through five whole helpings of cookie dough, stopping only after four and a half to inhale deeply from the bucket of water on the table. She giggles and raises an eyebrow when he tries to hiccup and burp at the same time; Po starts to choke and she reaches over to bang him on the back.

("You should tell her, you know," Viper says softly, and she rages inwardly for not being selfish enough to be talking about herself.)

.

The confession happens the week after. Tigress is elated; she had been feeling the same way for months, Po tells Viper excitedly. He hugs her the best way he can a snake, and she averts her gaze before congratulating him heartily because she knows that her expression will inevitably betray the well-wishes.

By night, tears prick at her eyes, and Viper tells herself _this is natural, this is normal_; it's only the first step of healing, to become whole again. Take it one step at a time, anticipate the next stages, praying that the pain will subside with each passing day – the long trek back is stamped with a multitude of footprints and she tries to follow her own distinct snake trail to a time when _he_ didn't matter as much, ignoring the fact that she can't remember when that was or if it even existed. Live the remainder of life with its simple plea for absolution: hope, hope, hope. Beneath the light of a waxing moon, she coaxes herself to sleep with the consoling thought that the two of them harbour within them the estranged halves of a sad, mournful song, their clandestine duet.

(If she could, she would sing a dream for them to share equally; vocals and melodies saturated with broken chords and _tempo rubato_; capturing in concert that plaintive melancholy, that persuasive yearning, that sorrowful forlornness.)

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** What? He's using a musical number? No pretentious poetry this time? Sacrilege! Sharpen the pitchforks and bring out the torches!

Oh pooh. It's fun to switch references every now and then anyway.

Thanks for reading and review if you want to (but only if you really want to, though); if you feel like submitting your own request, you know where to look.


	3. snow mellows the flute

**Title:** snow mellows the flute**  
>Characters:<strong> Mei Ling, Crane**  
>Summary:<strong> _His wing finds her paw, their fingers warm in the snow. Mei Ling turns towards him, astonished, and she finally sees the look in his eyes._**  
>Written for:<strong> mechkiller**  
>Prompts: <strong>Post Kung Fu Panda 2, Happy, Winter Feast Celebration**  
>Word count:<strong> 800

* * *

><p><em>Degrees of comparison<br>Go with differing conditions:  
>Sunlight mellows lichens,<em>  
><em>Whereas snow mellows the flute.<em>

-_ Nine Variations in a Chinese Winter Setting, Variation IX,_ Charles Tomlinson

.

"Mei, come on. We're going to be late." Crane pounds on the wooden door urgently. Master Shifu had said _five minutes_ and by the way his eyebrows had furrowed and joined in the middle of his forehead, Crane knows that he meant business.

"Crane, I look ridiculous. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all." Closing her eyes, Mei Ling reclines against the other side.

"I'm sure you look just fine."

"The Winter Feast, Crane. There's probably a standard of how froufrou my clothes need to be before they even let me in."

"It's at Po's this year – you know they've lightened up a bit…"

"Great. So even the Dragon Warrior gets to laugh at me."

"Mei," he implores, and by now he's already teased the door open a crack. "Please?"

She sighs and rolls her eyes. The years have not taken away his obstinate charm. She slides the bolt out of the latch and wrenches the door open, hesitantly stepping out of the bathroom.

Mei Ling is wearing her quotidian teal vest, the most formal-looking article of clothing she owns. A skin of makeup dusts her face, her features outlined in thin cosmetics. Even so, her minimalistic pulchritude strikes him – Crane has to consciously stop his jaw from unhinging, an annoying habit he only became aware of days before.

"Well?" She inspects his stunned face, awaiting ridicule.

"You look…you look nice," Crane manages, and then he leads her out before Mei Ling can see him blushing.

.

The decorations are fabulous this year – a blazonry of multicoloured lanterns hangs from cords suspended above them, psychedelic fireflies trapped in the web of some gargantuan spider.

"What?" Mei Ling thinks she must have misheard him.

"Let's dance." Crane spreads his wings grandly.

"You can dance?"

"I can try," he replies.

They sweep out centripetally into the crowd of swaying people. Mei Ling gawks when Crane sheepishly admits he doesn't know how to lead. She teaches him; an atypical reversal of roles. They pull towards each other, ignoring the stares of neighbouring dancers. They're an odd couple, but neither of them care.

.

About an hour after they finish dinner, Crane notices that she's gone. Hastily excusing himself, he follows a set of footprints in the snow to the nearby woods. The trail stops a few feet away from a large pine; as he looks around, a snowball slugs him in the back of his head. Shaking the slush off his feathers, Crane sees Mei Ling peering from behind a spinney, grinning mischievously and holding a crimp of snow. He rears up and flaps his wings once, sending a gentle shockwave of air towards her. The current knocks off the snow accumulating on the branches above her and treats Mei Ling to a heavy deluge of sleet and ice.

Later, they sit on an embankment overlooking the Valley of Peace. He peels off his scarf and wraps it around her, murmuring something about _didn't think it would be that much_; Mei Ling smiles and thanks him even though she's already warm enough.

"You forgot to say _ka-kaw_," she monotones impishly.

Mortified, Crane sulks petulantly. "Whatever Monkey told you…"

Fixed in the slumbering firmament, the full moon is at its zenith, raking macropterous shadows through the thickets and across the forest floor. Stars peek shyly around the borders of darkened clouds, pinpricks in the velvet map of the night sky.

"Eight years," Mei Ling says suddenly.

Crane looks at her, surprised. "Eight years," he echoes softly.

"It's been a long while," she sighs wistfully. Mei Ling stares at the village far away, a visual panorama shining through the trees; arboreal legionaries standing guard.

"Too long," he croaks in agreement.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too."

Looking back at where they've come from, they can hear the chatter of families celebrating in their homes accompanying the ochreous hue of festivities left behind. A light snow begins to fall, touching up the places where they have trod.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she breathes.

"Yes." His wing finds her paw, their fingers warm in the snow. Mei Ling turns towards him, astonished, and she finally sees the look in his eyes. "You are," Crane whispers.

His head dips ever so slightly, a shy invitation. She edges closer noiselessly and gives her answer, sealing her lips over his beak, a perfect fit.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And we're back with more ostentatious poetry! Wait, it's...happy? A drabble that doesn't angst till no end? It can't be!

I've never tried pure shipping before; it was an interesting experience. I was tempted to slip in some angst at one point, but that really isn't in the spirit of the prompts now, is it? Admittedly, 'Post Kung Fu Panda 2' had me scratching my head a little bit, but I hope that the obscure references were enough and that the schmaltzy melodrama didn't knock you out. As always, thanks for reading and bigger thanks in advance if you review, and I'm now down to the last two.


	4. when serpents bargain

**Title:** when serpents bargain**  
>Characters:<strong> Tigress, Crane**  
>Summary:<strong> _Tigress gives a weak smile. "For what it's worth, I think you'd make a great leader."**  
><strong>_**Written for:** the mizter**  
>Prompts: <strong>Dispute, Leadership, Anger, Envy, Regret**  
>Word count:<strong> 800

* * *

><p><em>when serpents bargain for the right to squirm<em>  
><em>and the sun strikes to gain a living wage-<em>  
><em>when thorns regard their roses with alarm<em>  
><em>and rainbows are insured against old age<em>

_then we'll believe in that incredible_  
><em>unanimal mankind(and not until)<em>

_- when serpents bargain,_ E.E. Cummings

.

The library archives the triumphs and failings of uncountable armies, soldier squadrons infinite and buried on battlefields forsaken. He reaches for yet another scroll, waving his wing over the coiled document to gust off the cobwebs that cocoon the most timeworn ones, and takes care not to crinkle the browned paper as he unrolls it. The fading text is barely legible in the light of Crane's reading candle. Here and there patches of mildew obscure the writing, but what remains is sufficient for understanding.

_Xun Dynasty. Battle of White Cliff – Peripheral army of Emperor Xunzhong vs. Mongolian nomadic invaders. Victor: Mongolians. Scribe notes commendable manoeuvring by combat specialist on Xun's army, though exploitation of terrain and weather by Mongolian forces offered large advantage. Sources quote management of manpower by leader of Mongolians. Recommend further investigation with survivor testimony to further improve battle strategies –_

Sighing, Crane flops backwards, forgetting the fragile document held in his wings; it disintegrates into a cloud of fibres, flocking against his face. He smells mineral ink and age, and snaps upwards to sneeze and cough at the same time. Crane spends a solid half minute caught in what feels like an attempt to expel his lungs from his mouth and nostrils. When he can finally breathe regularly again, Crane glances down at the ruined remains of what was a five hundred year old record, now atomised and floating in the stifling air.

Master Shifu is going to have a conniption about this.

But research is research, and Crane unearthed what he was looking for. Several dozen accounts and all of chronicled history agree with what he's been suspecting for a while, and if the rest are reasonable, they will, too.

.

The next day, Crane requests a meeting in the Hall of Warriors. The Furious Five stand in a row facing Shifu, who remains seated and is resting his chin on his fist. His scowl confirms his displeasure at Crane's treatment of one of his oldest manuscripts.

"I suggest that a leader should be appointed to head the Furious Five." Crane draws himself up, looking a lot more confident than he really is. Shifu has raised an eyebrow, his mouth turning down slowly at the sides, making him seem even more cantankerous than usual. A case is made: Crane explains the benefits offered by a structural hierarchy, how it maximises operational efficacy through a chain of command. He reasons that micromanagement is needed more urgently with evolving rules of engagement, citing tactical scientists and a few choice reports dredged up in his studies.

"But why?" Viper pipes up from beside him. "We've always worked fine as equals."

Monkey, on the other side of the line, scratches his head. "That's what I was thinking," he mumbles.

"Maybe some of us think themselves better than the rest," Mantis mutters, scraping his appendages against each other.

The aspersion takes a few seconds to register, and an uncomfortable silence wedges between each of them. Crane trains his gaze on his talons, his face burning from the implied suspicion, mingling with the crash of anger surging in his chest.

Then, Shifu speaks. "Tigress, what do you think?"

She hasn't said anything yet, continuing to frown in deep cogitation. When she replies, her words are careful and measured. "The idea has merits, but designating an official leader could threaten the team dynamic. We shouldn't fix something that isn't broken." Tigress throws Crane an apologetic look, but he doesn't see.

Shifu nods contemplatively. "Very well. So it shall be, then."

.

The paper almost shreds in the wake of clumsy brush strokes, soaking gloomily in fluid-spattered misery. On the scroll, the scratches bear no resemblance to Chinese characters whatsoever. Calligraphy has always been relaxing for Crane, but now it aggravates more than anything. He holds his canvass at an angle for better illumination, and ink dribbles delightedly onto both of his wings.

What he will give for an hour in the Training Hall…

His door slides open, and he pivots his head to look. Tigress doesn't seem to notice his most unimpressive position – he's holding the scroll at arm's length to avoid getting more ink onto himself with his brush viced in his beak. Turning back, he lets his instrument clatter onto the floor to speak. "Yeah? What do you want?" The rudeness isn't gratuitous, but it isn't him, and he feels a slight pang of guilt.

Tigress gives a weak smile. "For what it's worth, I think you'd make a great leader."

Crane looks around and meets a closed door.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Abrupt ending is abrupt. But a word limit is still a limit, so, yeah. I've also realised I have a rather annoying penchant for anachronistic descriptors; totally not admitting it before anyone calls me out on it. There's also a scant Mulan reference somewhere in there, if you feel like playing 'Spot the Reference'.

Not taking any more requests; the final one has already been received. Thanks for playing, and now a word from our sponsors.


	5. All That Love Cannot Say

**Title:** All That Love Cannot Say**  
>Characters:<strong> Po, Tigress**  
>Summary:<strong> _With the erasure of guilt and regret, they are finally at peace. So peaceful. So silent.**  
><strong>_**Written for:** Dylzto**  
>Prompt: <strong>Manifestation**  
>Word count:<strong> 1300

* * *

><p><em>Here where trees are planted by the water<em>  
><em> I have watched your eyes, cleansed from regret,<em>  
><em> And your lips, closed over all that love cannot say,<em>

_But there is only the evening here,_  
><em> And the sound of willows<em>  
><em> Now and again dipping their long oval leaves in the water.<em>

_- Betrothed, _Louise Bogan

.

The night has descended and drowned out the sun in an astrological explosion of winking stars and dark matter, its lack of colour counterpointing perfectly against the vibrancy beheld below; an insulator for the fervent kindle of the world and its inhabitants. Beyond the Pool of Sacred Tears, an entire world stretches outwards in an expanded Valley of Peace, testing the discernible range of peripheral vision for one who would venture this high. No one has for years, up till now.

Plodding forward, an unusual sight sets foot on hallowed ground – a panda.

Grand Master Po Ping, the Dragon Warrior, takes care not to disturb any part of the ancient rockery as he shuffles over to the water on rheumatism-afflicted legs that creak annoyingly at the joints. The trimmed fur on his face accentuates his laugh lines, deep wrinkles bracketing a mouth that used to hold dozens of bean buns. Unlike his master, he doesn't keep facial hair, preferring a clean-cut visage for organic hoariness and neatness. He looks like an odd hermit in his tanned trousers and clashing burgundy shawl, a rebel sage if you look at him with just the right angulation. The wooden staff he grasps, an heirloom, doubles as a cane to check his path in the light of the timid lantern in his left hand. He can't see too well these days.

Standing on the aquifer's edge, Po remembers the pit-washing and the overwhelming tears, letting himself smile. The push-ups he's not capable of anymore, a surreptitious dip into a soup cauldron and the rap of bamboo on his knuckles, and combat over a steamed bun – he still has the chopsticks in a glass case on his shelf. The unorthodoxy, but reminiscing isn't why he's come.

This is now. He waits for a little while, but now he knows what for.

The wind rumples the leaves of neighbouring trees, a whispering call to arms, and she emerges from behind an outcrop in front of him. Unspoiled and more beautiful than he can ever remember, even penetrating his failing sight, Master Tigress approaches him, looking over his aged features and smirking at him the way she used to. She shakes her youthful head.

"You got old, Po."

"I know. Still have this, though, as a keepsake." Po pounds his abdomen. "Just in case you needed something to recognise me. I just wish we could have gotten old together. See how you would look like," he says, chuckling as she rolls her eyes. "So it's just you, isn't it? I thought that maybe Master Shifu would be here too."

"You've got a long way to go before being worthy of the escort of _our _master, oh amazing Dragon Warrior."

Tigress embraces him, and she is corporeal and pliant and perfectly warm, just like that night in Gongmen before she left. His nose grazes her collar and he smells lavender, the first thing he ever noticed about her. He can't think of anything else. The pressure of their beating hearts push against each other in pulsing synchrony, their connecting lifelines. When they pull apart, she is smiling too.

"Oogway told me, you know. That you would understand. Did you?"

His smile shrinks away, but it's still there, faintly. "It took a while, but your letter helped. Blaming myself got tiresome decades ago."

"You never should have."

"I know that now."

With the erasure of guilt and regret, they are finally at peace. So peaceful. So silent.

"Well. Everyone's waiting; are you ready?"

"I was born ready," he replies, and they laugh together at the irony, and the nostalgia.

Behind them, an intruder appears upon the stage of his last act. The tiger steps forward, like an unannounced extra, but there is no script, no direction. "Master Po? You weren't at the Jade Palace, so we came looking for you. Is everything all right?"

Po glances sideway at Tigress, who remains unseen by his student, and looks back at the tiger. "Everything's fine, Quan."

"Oh. Okay." Quan rubs his nose. "Listen, when we get back, I've got a pretty interesting formation the Furious Five-point-one can try out during our next round of training –"

Po holds up a paw to stop Quan, as Tigress raises an eyebrow and mouths _five-point-one?_ at Po. "Quan, I need you to tell the others something. I'll be leaving tonight, and you will have to lead them. Without me."

"Leaving? Where are you going? You don't mean –"

"Yes." Po nods in confirmation. "My time has come, as it will for everyone."

"But…Master! I can't do – it's too soon for this! We need you."

Innately, Po reads the insecurity and helplessness on Quan's face, and gestures for him to come closer. Po leans forward so that he can see Quan's features clearly. "Did I ever tell you a tale about a crazy old turtle who believed in his student? That student, Grand Master Shifu, chose to believe in me, just as I believe in you now. We are warriors descended from a proud lineage of good and upright people who change lives for the better, placing trust in one another to be there for each other – my master bequeathed this philosophy and this trust to me as his master did to him, and now it's your turn. I cannot stay any longer, but I've taught you for years and I know you. You're ready for this. Besides, if a washed-up good-for-nothing like me with zilch experience made this much out of belief, I know that you'll be awesome and so much more." Po presses his staff into Quan's paws. "I entrust this to you – my belief. Take it, please, and promise me you'll believe too. I'm giving you my everything. I'm giving you their everything."

Quan is quiet and on the brink of tears, but he nods and bows deeply at this wisdom, clutching the staff. Po grins at him, and steps back to where Tigress waits.

"Master Oogway would be jealous," she whispers; Po blushes.

"Practice, my dear Tigress. Practice."

_I can hear it; the metronome of powdered butterfly wings, fluttering; the song of the universe –_

They turn simultaneously to walk towards the pool. In the very centre, the water surges, rises, a torrent uncontained, reaching towards the heavens, their gateway to their destination. She offers her paw, and he accepts. Po turns to look at Quan one last time, waving goodbye.

_We do love each other very much, don't we?_

Ripples spread where his feet touch the glassy surface; there are none beneath hers. When he moves past the glimmering curtain, Tigress has risen before him but he still holds on, giving her all the love he's had in his lifetime, the days that she can't have. He's leaning so far forward but he hasn't fallen or entered the silky water yet, and he's light and buoyant, an apparition wound together with forces stronger than existence…

_This was a pretty amazing life, after all._

They lift, and once they no longer ascend spontaneously, they hurl themselves miles into the atmosphere. Beyond the limits of the concave sky, beyond fathomable reason and time and memory, coiling around each other on some invisible axis like the dance of cosmic fireflies, and he is free.

She leads him into paradise, and he follows her into salvation.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So I failed the meme. But there was no way I was going to rush through _that_. Busted the limit by 500 words. Thanks to Dylzto for the amazing idea to end this challenge; I may have failed it, but the attempt was very enjoyable indeed, save the unwarranted references to complete the strangest trilogy possible. Thank you, everyone who participated: Starlight River of Dreams, Anything Goes, mechkiller, the mizter, and Dylzto. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the amazing prompts and your patience for this slow author. Thank you, everyone who's read any part of this, and bigger thanks to those who enjoyed it.


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